Ciel
by Duzzie
Summary: For there are many skies left unheard of. Different stories, different universes, different endings, all under the same blue skies.
1. Sky 201

Sky 201  
.[for there are many skies left unheard of].

_And in the end, he is still such a selfish man._

**--- --- --- --- --- --- **

The corners of her mouth twitch and slowly start to pinch around the edges as an uncomfortable burning sets in. Her lips thin and eyes close and finally her mouth turns downward. It's a pretty sight, really. Very pretty. Very sad.

She wears sadness like a second skin, fits into every nook and cranny and fills it with herself as if it were the most natural look she'd ever donned.

He almost likes that sadness and the way she expresses it; the way it makes her so tangible. Real. And it's a slow process, as if slowing it down could somehow make it go away.

It's a nice day, too.

The sky is blue--blue on blue on blue on red because the core of everything is red if you know how to see it. There aren't any clouds, not one for miles and miles and a soft breeze plays off the branches of even the smallest trees. The sun is gentle and would on any other day be soothing. Ah, life.

He catches her shiver, knows it isn't from the weather (after all, it's such a nice day), and watches. Yes, a very slow process. Perhaps even one that doesn't stop. Maybe once you have tasted death, there is no end to sadness (and, oh, how they have tasted it).

He could comfort her.

He could hold her hand, smooth out the quakes, pat her head, bring her close to him, breathe in her sorrow, apologize, smile, tell her soft words and soft things and even softer lies.

He could, but he doesn't.

She would be angry with him if he did anyway, accuse him of everything he is and everything he should have been and all that he would get for his meaningless efforts would be a bruised jaw. No, thank you. Besides. His hands were warm inside his pockets and it was quite comfortable, no need to do anything that wouldn't benefit him in any way.

Her steps slow to a stop in front of him and the only thing he can see is the black of her dress and the bright of her hair. It's fitting, somehow, and he almost wants to reach out.

She turns around (no tears in her eyes and no ring on her finger and no loudmouthed boy with bright eyes at her side—he can't honestly say that it really affects him, though) and with a certain tremor, she opens her mouth.

"…So…This is how it is, right?…Life, I mean. How's it's always going to be." It's not really a question.

He smiles a not-smile, eyes crinkling, bitter laugh breaking and heart not quite straining enough. "Yeah. This is how it is." And she smiles right back at him.

"Okay." She says and sighs too many regrets away.

"…Okay." He says, never sighing enough.

It is a beautiful day, the funeral was nice and around them, the Earth is still silently sleeping.

_Oh Spring, you darkly spinning void._

**--- --- --- --- ---**


	2. Sky 202

Sky 202  
.[for there are many skies left unheard of].

_In the end, she really is just a toy soldier._

**--- --- --- --- --- --- **

The corners of her mouth twitch and slowly start to pinch around the edges as an uncomfortable burning sets in around her eyes, as if she's about to cry, but she doesn't.

Her lips thin and eyes close and finally, her mouth turns downward. She walks through the village like a ghost. Her hair is matted with grime and dried blood, staining it with sins she's come to perform without thinking twice about.

The first time she killed a person, the taste of the acrid bile in her mouth didn't leave for weeks afterward. She remembers it clearly because he had blond hair and blue eyes and he looked so much like Naruto and she broke his knee caps and slit his throat (not without obtaining more than a few injuries herself, but it was his face staring back at her in the end). Now she can have her hand in someone's thoracic cavity one minute and be eating at Ichiraku Ramen the next.

She limps onward. People steer out of her way. She doesn't begrudge them this. She is a stranger in their strange land. Konoha is closer than it was five small civilian villages ago, but whether that actually makes it close or not is debatable. She coughs and spits out another mass of blood and wonders if she should just lie down and die. Wonders for about five tenths of a second and then tells death to go fuck itself for what is probably the millionth time in her life. She is not ten again and ready to give up at the slightest hitch, goddamnit.

She is not twelve and panting after a black hole and crying into pretty, manicured little fingernails. She is twenty-something going on dead and she is panting towards home and the promise of something better on the horizon and she is dragging her wounds with calloused, world weary, grown-up-too-fast hands, and she is proud of it.

She is not a pretty little object to be played around with. She is not a dog, who will sit and stay, or a toy soldier, accepting fate so blindly. She will not give her life up to anything, anyone, higher being or not, not to a lost love or a lost friendship, not to the hard life of a shinobi, not to a mission. Not to death. She is not a plaything, she values herself more than that, and she knows there are people waiting for her who value her more than that, too.

She leaves the village and continues to follow the same dirt path she hadn't taken her eyes off of for weeks. It leads into a familiar forest. The renewed sense of hope flutters silently in her breast, but before she lets it take flight she performs a few quick hand seals, precautionary genjutsu kai. She feels almost detached from her body, as if it's going through the routine on its own and she's the silent spectator. Her movements are stiff and almost awkward, like a wooden puppet being controlled by an untrained master.

She almost can't contain the relieved sob that bubbles forth out of her half parted lips. It had sat dormant in her bones since the first genjutsu forest she'd come across while trying to get home, but this forest didn't disappear. From here she knows Konoha is only a few miles away, hidden from the eyes of a map, but not from her heart. She uses the last of her chakra to give herself a boost and sets off into the forest, jumping from tree to tree, body protesting and mind starting to go fuzzy around the edges, but she can taste the bitter-sweetness of home on the tip of her tongue and she can feel the sun peaking out through the trees on her skin and its warmth soaks into her and settles the beast she'd been keeping in herself to survive.

She is home. She can feel it in every fiber of her being.

She lands in a large clearing. The gates of Konoha have never looked so far away to her.

Energy almost entirely spent and vision getting darker she approaches the gates. The guards on duty knew whom she was on sight, she guesses, because they don't attack and one immediately rushes off when she nears. She gives one last sigh and lets her legs give out from underneath her, but she doesn't meet the ground.

She is caught and cradled in someone's arms, the sun on her face, the wind in her hair, home on her tongue, in her heart. She imagines her apartment, of a man standing in it, waiting for her with his lazy but sweet, half-eyed smile, with his mask down and his deep sadness subdued. She's always loved that about him, his tangibility, though she never said so.

She imagines going home to meet him and climbing into bed with him and lying there forever, with just the sounds of his breathing and the warmth of the blanket surrounding her. She imagines waking up to him and coffee, breakfast in bed on lazy days and on proper days before long missions away from home, eating at the table, together. She imagines happiness in her future.

She doesn't imagine—or want—perfection, and she knows that being together doesn't always mean happiness (after all, they're shinobi, and once a shinobi has tasted death, there is no end to sadness, and oh, how they have tasted sadness), but it's okay, she thinks, because she loves him all the same, and, like a lost toy, she's found her way back home to him.

When she starts to shiver, she knows her body's finally going into shock. Around her, colors fade, as do images and sound, but when she cracks her eyes open, it is to his moonshine hair and his bloodshot eyes. She can tell he's yelling something to her, but she's tired, too tired and it's hard to listen and her vision has almost been entirely eclipsed and the shivers have turned violent.

She reaches her head up as if to whisper something, some sweet nothing or calming word, or regret, or apology, but she only says, "this is how it is" and her eyes close and her shivering stops and Kakashi looks down at her, the pretty, broken doll in his lap and the corners of his mouth twitch and slowly start to pinch around the edges as an uncomfortable burning sets in around his eyes, as if he were about to cry. He looks down at her, with her thin lips and closed eyes and then he picks her up and carries her into the village.

He doesn't cry.

He smiles a not-smile, eyes crinkling, bitter laugh breaking and heart not quite straining enough. "Yeah. This is how it is."

_Oh Summer, you darkly spinning void._

**--- --- --- --- ---**


End file.
